Again al-Shoum agreed, and scratched his head. Logan could afford to guess, but he had to cover all possibilities, and there were many. He could not rule out the dash to Israel, and he had sent search teams toward the Zionist border, further depleting his force.
Then there was the problem of the vehicle itself. The Marine had stolen an old white Toyota pickup truck, which was the most common vehicle in Syria, if not in the entire region. There were hundreds of white Toyota pickups on the roads, going in every direction, in and out of every population center, all day long. The escapees could be in any of them.
In a professional sense, al-Shoum held a grudging respect for his opponent for sticking with his job after the helicopter crash, coming into the village and rekidnapping the general. It did not matter. His job was now to catch them both, and that was what he would do. Afterward, he looked forward to dealing with Victor Logan for the murder of that girl.
He stood and turned when a soldier called out to him and pointed. A dark blue Land Rover came sailing toward them from the village, the tinted windows sealing in the air conditioning as the tires threw plumes of dust into the air behind it. A man with a gray beard and thick eyelashes, wearing clean white robes and head covering, got out of the back seat when the vehicle stopped beside the tent.
“General al-Shoum,” the visitor said. “My dear friend.”
Al-Shoum bowed with respect, then embraced the senior imam from a mosque in Damascus. He helped the cleric to a chair at the table, and poured tea. A guard moved Logan out of earshot.
“I am always delighted to see you, my friend, for you have the peace of Allah with you. But what brings you to this desolate place?” al-Shoum asked. “A man of the Book need not trouble himself in this routine business.”
The old man sipped his tea and spent about five minutes exchanging pleasantries. The children, of course, and the crops and the animals, and also the wife. Al-Shoum grew more impatient by the minute. This imam did not leave his mosque to drop by as a curious tourist. He might have been sent from the government to report on al-Shoum’s work.
“Please forgive me for keeping my radios tuned so loudly,” he said. “I am conducting a wide search for the missing Americans.” Take the hint, old man.
“That is part of why I am here, beyond learning the joyous news of your family. I am doing a favor for my fellow cleric and our important ally, Sheikh Ali Shalal Rassad in Iraq, a very respected man in the service of the Prophet, whose name be praised.”
“Praised be the name,” al-Shoum parroted. “Anything I can do to assist your mission, I shall do.” The Rebel Sheikh was sending a message through a messenger of such high pedigree that there could be no doubt about its validity and importance.
“Our friend is most disturbed. He dispatched an airplane early this morning to transfer the American general safely to his hospitality in Iraq. He knows our own nation had nothing to do with the kidnapping, and it appears that many things have changed since the man was taken. Matters have gone to the highest levels.”
Al-Shoum said, “Which is why I am present here.”
The imam continued without pause. “Our friend, of course, was unaware that you had been sent by Damascus, and offers his most sincere apologies for the misunderstanding. He meant no offense to you or to your abilities. He was only attempting to salvage the situation and help our nation.”
Al-Shoum put his hands flat on the table, eyes downcast, humble, obedient as a sheep. And what’s your damned point?
“But you can only imagine our friend’s surprise when he learned that not only has the American general escaped with the help of another American, but that all of the Sheikh’s holy warriors who had been guarding him have been martyred. All of them!”
“That is true. His Iraqis apparently were too careless in posting guards.” Al-Shoum’s tone was a sneer at their carelessness.
The old man stroked his beard, the dark eyes stronger than the frail body. “Something insulting has happened. The American infidel Gordon Gates actually ordered our friend to dispatch even more fighters, a large number of them, up here to join your search. He ordered a man of the Book to do so! It is an outrage! So our brother has decided to do what is best for us all.”
“Of course. And what was his decision?”
“Naturally, he would never intrude into your operation, brother. He expresses full confidence that you will resolve this situation, and his attention is demanded elsewhere, on more fruitful things.” Having delivered his message, the old man rose and gave the Syrian intelligence officer a final hug. “Inshallah, the will of Allah be done,” said the imam. He bestowed blessings for al-Shoum’s sons to grow strong in the service of the Prophet, got back into the Land Rover, and was driven serenely away.
Al-Shoum watched the blue SUV vanish back the way it had come. Shit! First that Iraqi pig had tried to sneak in and steal the American general right from under al-Shoum’s nose, and now he was abandoning the search. That would leave al-Shoum alone to take any blame if they escaped.
“What was that all about?” asked Logan, ducking back beneath the tent.
“Nothing,” said al-Shoum. “An old friend who happened to be in the area and wondered what was going on.” Ali Shalal Rassad, who had already lied to the world that his organization, the Holy Scimitar of Allah, was not involved, was washing his hands of the whole mess. The old imam who brought the message was often employed as an unofficial emissary by the Syrian government, which would now be considering doing the same thing to ease international tensions. While al-Shoum sat beneath this tent in the middle of nowhere, the distance from Damascus hung around his neck like an albatross, for he realized that being stuck out here meant that he would not be privy in the final decision-making. Damascus had changed his mission. Instead of making a decision himself, he had been sent off running after a couple of Marines. If a scapegoat was needed, he might be chosen as the sacrifice.
He looked at the sky, where the sun had risen higher. No helicopters in the area. He increased the volume on the radio net. The sooner he captured those Americans, the better, because then he would be on the next chopper back to Damascus, possibly entering the city as a hero. He spun to face the American mercenary, whose help he now needed much more than he had only ten minutes ago. “We are wasting time, Logan.”
CHAPTER 51
THE DESOLATE ROAD LED BACK into a countryside that was green with agriculture rather than the normal desert brown, with ditches on each side to help with the irrigation of crops in a dry climate. Small canals with gates separated the larger tracts of land in a crossing pattern, to feed water from one area to another in a rotating schedule. As the sun crested totally above the horizon, a shining torch that removed the protecting darkness, Swanson found a major canal that apparently spilled into much of the region, with a low level of water. He dropped the truck into four-wheel drive, cut onto a cart path, and bounced down into the big trench.
Middleton grimaced in agony as he was tossed around in the cab, but Kyle kept going until all four wheels were in the water. He plunged ahead into a large concrete culvert that served both as a waterway and an opening through which farm machinery could transit from crops on one side of the road to the other. With a high clearance and only about a foot of water, the truck fit easily beneath the shelter, with both ends deep in shadow. He stopped and turned off the engine, and silence engulfed them. “This is it for the day. No choice.”